LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

©Ipqt. ©njc^rig^l If o. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



A DREAM 

OF 

THE ADIRONDACKS 

And Other Poems 



BY 



HELEN HINSDALE RICH 



« 2 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK : 27 & 29 WEST 23D ST. 
LONDON : 25 HENRIETTA ST., COVENT GARDEN 

1884 






COPYRIGHT BY 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

1884 



Press of 

G. P. Putnam^s Sons 

New York 



TO THE MEMORY OF 

THE GOOD 

PETER COOPER 



INTRODUCING THE POET. 



Helen Hinsdale Rich, the author of these verses, 
was born in Antwerp, Jefferson County, New York, 
in 1827, in a log-cabin on the farm cleared by her 
father, Ira Hinsdale. He was one of the pioneers 
of that region, and had moved there from Massa- 
chusetts but a few years before. It will readily be 
understood that Helen Hinsdale had small advan- 
tage of schooling in her girlhood, and she was mar- 
ried at the age of twenty ; her culture, as it appears 
in this volume, has been gained by the devotion of 
hours seized from the engrossing domestic cares of 
a busy and faithful wife and mother. With these 
cares, moreover, she has joined for many years an 
untiring service to her kind by writing and speaking 
in the causes of temperance, woman's rights, and 
whatever work appeared to her warm and earnest 
heart as tending to the betterment of society. She 
has thus been prominent in the work of the Uni- 
versalist denomination, and earned a place in the 
book of "The Working Women of Our Church," 
published some years ago. Her husband, Mr. 



VI INTRODUCING THE POET. 

Moses Rich, a manufacturer of Brasher Falls, died 
recently, and her activities, so long well-known and 
prized in Northern New York, have been transferred 
to the West, her present residence being with her 
married daughter in St. Joseph, Missouri. 

As a lecturer, and as a contributor to newspapers 
of high standing, and to magazines, of essays and 
stories, but especially of poems, Mrs. Rich has 
already won a considerable audience, and such 
appreciative praise as justifies her in this approach 
to a larger and more critical hearing. This modest 
volume of verse is to be regarded first as the natural 
and indeed needful expression of her ardent hu- 
manity ; it is that vital force that has moved her to 
verse, just as it has to work. The book is a selec- 
tion, not a collection ; it cannot claim to contain 
all the best verse of its author ; but it does fairly 
represent a woman's life such as Mrs. Rich's has 
been and continues to be. The knowledge of the 
few facts I have mentioned, however, though it will 
and should contribute to the interest felt by the 
readers of her verse, is surely no way needed to 
awaken and to hold that interest. 

Mrs. Rich's work possesses a distinct literary 
quality which entitles her to a place among the 



INTRODUCING THE POET. Vll 

minor poets of the country. She does not traverse 
a wide range ; dwells for the most part on home 
feeling and country life ; but she imparts to her 
chosen themes the poetical charm which every one 
can recognize, but few can express. Her treatment 
is simple, but never baldly simple ; without any 
search after originality, she yet attains it by a 
natural and happy choice of language and rhythm. 
A fortunate instance of this is the poem "Die, 
Sweet June," which is a strain of vivid melody, and 
contains exquisite phrases, — such as " The revelry 
of golden throats," which brings immediate vision 
of flashing orioles and echo of bobolinks. Mrs. 
Rich's sense of the loveliness of earth, keen in all 
phases, becomes almost passionate for flowers, as in 
the poems " Death and Roses " and " Naming the 
Flower." She gives value to the memory of friends 
and of childhood, and to the emotions of mother- 
hood rare and even profound expression. What is 
more true than this poignant thought ? — 

" I think the sting of death must be 
Resigning love's sweet mastery ; 
To bid our little ones Good-night, 
To turn from home and its delight, — 
Even with all of heaven in sight." 

Read, too, her sympathy with mother and wean- 



Vlll INTRODUCING THE POET. 

ling in "Forbidden Fruit," and the touching appeal 
of the unloved child in "Famished." Mrs. Rich 
writes eloquently on the dignity of labor and the 
honor of serving our fellows, as the lines to Peter 
Cooper, to Theodore Parker and Wendell Phillips, 
on "The Music of Labor," and the vigorous satire 
of "Wanted, Men" testify. Her narrative poems 
are on this motive, with the exception of the clever 
mining-camp story of " Justice in Leadville " — an 
experiment that Mrs. Rich had as good right to 
make as John Hay ; and that, as well as the others, 
is admirably told, with a direct and rapid movement. 
In a few poems the author exhibits a power of 
tragic concentration which, oftener used, would 
have deepened, and changed also, the impression 
the volume makes. These poems are " North " 
(whose subject is the suicide of a young poet), 
"Lost," and "Two Little Graves." It is, perhaps, 
as well that Mrs. Rich has not indulged in this vein, 
for of tragedy there are many morbid hymnists, and 
never too many sweet and natural singers of the 
holiest affections and the healthiest dispositions of 
our humanity. Love, labor, hope, and Christian 
trust are the inspirations of this poet. 

Charles G. Whiting. 
Springfield, Muss., June, 1884. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGK 

A Dream of the Adirondacks I 

May Song 7 

The Boy's Kiss 9 

Die, Sweet June 11 

Little Wounds 13 

Morning and Evening Glories 15 

In the Hammock ........ 16 

My Lotus Flower 18 

My Old Home 20 

Pansies 26 

One who Died 28 

Old Letters 31 

Home-Light 34 

Thanksgiving Phantoms 36 

Death and Roses 38 

Christmas Tryst 40 

Silent Mothers 44 

Lost and Found ....... 46 

My Guests 48 

Forbidden Fruit 51 

A Valentine 54 

ix 



X CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Thanksgiving Eve ....... 57 

Famished ......... 60 

Christmas Eve 62 

Estranged 65 

The Lights of Lynn 66 

Child and Soldier 69 

The Angel in the Heart 72 

The Eternal Plan 74 

Music of Labor . . . . . . . 76 

Wanted — Men 80 

Chicago 85 

North 87 

Invocation 89 

If Only 92 

Think Noble Things of God 94 

The Engineer's Story 97 

Justice in Leadville . . . . . . 104 

Company K 113 

Guess Who? 116 

Only a Woman 118 

Compensation 124 

Little Phil 126 

Survival 130 

Could We But Know ! 131 

Theodore Parker 133 

Emerson 134 

Wendell Phillips 135 

Peter Cooper 136 



CONTENTS. XI 

PAGE 

Naming the Flower . 140 

Reluctance 144 

With a Sea-Shell 146 

Red Roses 148 

Orient .......... 149 

Remember Me 150 

Girl and Water-Lily 151 

Lost 153 

Two Little Graves 155 

In Remembrance 158 

The Brook 160 

The Grave 164 

Nocturne 167 



A DREAM OF THE ADIRONDACKS. 



O mystic mountains ! sleeping in tne dim 

Celestial blue of yonder throbbing haze, 
Purpling horizon's cloud-caressing rim, 

Fading to mist before my yearning gaze, 
Speak to my spirit of your beauty wild ; 

Waft me the sighs of piney monarchs old ; 
Whisper your legends never yet denied 

By breath of fashion or debasing gold. 

Tell me bold deeds of huntsmen, brave and grim ; 

Stout Hiawathas, in the deadly strife 
Of love with famine, till my eyelids swim, 

And soul stands quivering 'mid the woes of life, 



2 A DREAM OF THE ADIRONDACKS. 

Sick of the shallow nothingness that fills 

The idle sails of folly's airy bark, 
Pleading for nature, and for truth that thrills 

The brain with fire from its immortal spark. 

Chant me, ye breezes, as those torrents hymn 

Sublimest praises to the Father there, — 
While the rich blossoms fairy lakes shall limn, 

Angels may stir with breath of holy prayer. 
Waft me the incense hoarded in the cells 

Of saintly lilies, as the Aves float 
From glens responsive to the song that swells 

From shining waters or some bird's soft throat. 

Snow-lighted mountain, somewhere in the rift 
Of splintered gorge, or on thy summit calm, 

In elfin grotto, holdest thou the gift 

Of perfect rest, of sorrow's precious balm ? 

Within the silence of thy columned fane, 
Deep in thy sylvan solitude, there lies 



A DREAM OF THE ADIRONDACKS. 3 

A charm to bring forgetfulness of pain, 
And sleep serene to weary, waiting eyes ; 

Where some fierce titan, smitten from his throne, 

The sceptred king of all the mountain world, 
Crushed in the conflict, maketh saddest moan 

Beneath the wreck of granite masses hurled ; 
Or, poised in heaven, above the eaglet's scream, 

To trace the rivers, faint as silver bars ; 
Of life beyond to ponder and to dream ; 

At night to feel the heart-beat of the stars ; 

To stand supreme upon the sovran rock 

Where Alpine flowers bedeck the brow of storm ; 
To smile exultingly above the shock 

Of thunders terrible, in dusky form ; 
To hold high converse with primeval things ; 

Alone with awful mysteries, to press 
The pulse of centuries ; to fold the wings 

Of restless thought in heavenly blissfulness. 



4 A DREAM OF THE ADIRONDACK^. 

Never to thee, thou white and peerless thing, 

Whose golden heart the crystal waters lave, 
The hot, fierce breath of monster steam shall bring 

Destroying whisper where thy banners wave. 
O gorgeous linden ! golden to the tips 

Of leaves that flutter in the azure tide, 
No murky shadows on the breast that dips 

The cloud with songful joyousness and pride. 

Forever barred, ye flaunting, soulless forms, 

Shaming our nature with the sickly growth 
Of all that braves the bitter, biting storms 

Of Fortune, — victims of consuming sloth. 
Never the drawling lisp, the brainless speech, 

The laugh unmeaning, the envenomed shaft 
Of slander to those fair abodes shall reach, 

Nor shrewd diplomacy employ his craft. 

Hoar Adirondacks ! sentinels to me, 
Guarding the realm of poesy, where lies 



A DREAM OF THE ADIRONDACK^. 

The pure, the beautiful, the grandly free ! 

The slumbering heart of Nature prophesies 
Of Time's fulfilment of man's broader life, 

The unstirred depths of being, love divine 
O'ermastering selfishness and deathful strife, 

Mind's own enchanted and enchanting clime. 

Thanks to His power, the weird and dusky fells, 

Heights still unclimbed the tangled ivies drape, 
Shield the great oracle that yet repels 

All that the world's weak vanities would ape, — 
One sacred shelter from the rushing mart, 

One august temple consecrate to Him 
Before whose majesty the human heart 

Trembles to see earth's pageantry wax dim. 

Within these shades the poet yet to be, 

Some bard, like Avon's swan, divinely fraught, 

Probing thy secrets, rock and shell and tree, 
All the sweet wisdom science vainly taught 



6 A DREAM OF THE ADIRONDACK^. 

To his clear vision gloriously revealed ; 

His harp repeats the melodies that stir 
The myriad forms of loveliness that yield 

Supreme delight to reverent worshiper. 

In the far ages hence — the peaceful days 

Of men who reach the stature like to His, 
And walk secure in God's illumined ways, 

While all love prayed and sighed for surely is- 
This our Arcadia, fresh and green as first 

In the creation's glad, effulgent morn, 
Its crowning peaks in lofty splendor burst, 

And all of vast sublimity was born. 



MAY SONG. 



Let me see ! It was May, for an oriole came, 

With its crest of vermilion and jet, 
Darting down like an arrow of radiant flame, 

In a song I shall never forget ; 
And flooding the air with a melody wild, 

Half sorrow, half passion, and pain. 
The years faded slowly ; I stood there a child, 

With a child's holy rapture again. 

Ah, yes, it was May ; for the violets blue 
That I crushed in my palms in my glee, 

With gentle reproach, shedding tear-drops of dew, 
Found pity and refuge with thee ; 



8 MAY SONG. 

It was May in the valley, on meadow and hill, 
And you kissed me, you know, by the birch 

That stands by the little, wild, frolicsome rill, 
Where the robins come always to perch. 

It was May in my heart, every folding and cell 

In imperial purple (all sovereigns may wear) ; 
May danced in my eyes that reflected so well 

Thy face lighting up all the beautiful there ; 
It was May ! It was May ! for you said with a sigh . 

" I love you ; remember it ages to come ; 
It will never be May to me more, if you fly, 

Then hasten to tell me you pine for your home." 



THE BOY'S KISS. 



Sitting by a princely child 
Never yet by sin denied, 
Gazing in his fearless eyes, 
Who shall picture my surprise ? 

When I stroked his bonnie hair, 
And his forehead smooth and fair, 
Drawing to his lips my hand, 
Like a knight of Holy Land, 

As the touch of roses pressed 
To a sleeping baby's breast, 
On my soul I felt a kiss, — 

Match me lady's boon like this ! 
9 



IO THE BOYS KISS. 

Never ring shall take the place 
Of this tender kiss of grace ; 
Other lips may never dare 
Find the secret nestled there. 

Darling boy, the twilight dies 
Softer for thy loving eyes ; 
Not a path thy feet have trod 
But shall wear a greener sod. 

And thy laughter, glad and low, 
Lingers where sweet roses grow ; 
All the world has something yet 
Of the kiss I ne'er forget, — 

Like the subtle perfume shed 
From the dust of lilies dead 
Some dear hand in mute caress 
Gave to love and — silentness. 



DIE, SWEET JUNE. 



Ring all thy lily bells, thy royal colors fly, 

Sweet June, and die ! 
The burden of her flowery state she bore, 

Till heart could bear no more 
The revelry of golden throats, perfumes 

Of all the dear, dead Junes. 
The phantom rose-leaves drifting faint and wan, 

Slow fading in the sun, 
Remembered kisses by the pansy bed, 

Vows that were said, 
Soft dreaming eyes of loved ones passed away 

Haunt the still day. 

The vanished sighs, the thrilling touch of hands, 

In death's far lands, 
ii 



! DIE, SWEET JUNE. 

All the impassioned loveliness that smiled 

On thee, fair child. 
Oh ! rose-crowned daughter of a deathless sire, 

Too fierce the fire 
That poured its amber tide along thy veins; 

Too strong the chains 
That bound thy spirit to the unburied past : 

Peace, June, at last ! 



LITTLE WOUNDS. 



You hurt me, child ! Nay, it was not the point 

Of the bright dagger with the gleaming hilt 

Of pearls and turquoise looping up the mass 

Of braided splendor, your dark chestnut hair ; 

Nor yet the bunch of roses at your belt, 

That well might hide a thorn. Alack ! 

You pierced my bosom with your softest smile, 

And turned the weapon in the aching wound 

By just an accent of your dainty French 

I toiled to give you, writing half the night. 

Ah, well ! girls never feel the stabs they give, 

Whilst they are girls. * * * 

Grand lovers push us from our darling's heart ; 

And when the little hands that plead for us 
13 



14 LITTLE WOUNDS. 

Are tugging at the old home memories, 
And urging our lost claims with cooing sweet, 
Until they stir Love's fountain to its depths, 
Then crying : " Mother, mother, now I know ! 
Alas, the pity ! but we cannot hear, 
Eor mother robins singing over us. 



MORNING AND EVENING GLORIES. 



All my sweet trumpeters, the Morning Glories, 
With pallid lips are lying chill and wan ; 

The brilliant troop that clambered to the stories 
Nearest the clouds, and heralded the sun. 

I count my dear departed, with misgiving 

That nevermore their splendors I shall know, — 

My frail glad beauties, fairest of all living, 
With Tyrian dyes, or whiter than the snow ! 

From dawn to eve I dwelt among the shadows, 
But when red sunset streamed on pane and vase, 

The Evening Glory, white as ermined meadows, 
Burst forth in regal loveliness and grace. 

O robes of samite ! breath of lilies lying 

Faint with excess of sweetness, where the sun 

Smiles first and longest ! Faith's pure signal flying, 

That morning's loss the starry night has won ! 
15 



IN THE HAMMOCK. 



Swayed like a sleeping flower, young lone lies ; 

The golden stream of ringlets overflows 

The silken net of lavender and pearl ; 

The palm of one enchanting passive hand, 

Like rose upturned to meet entreating gaze 

Of yon red star, rests at the hammock's edge ; 

The dainty model of a perfect foot, 

Like lily dropped amid the jasmine bloom, 

Beats the soft measure of a dreaming dance ; 

The cheek that blushes for its loveliness 

Dimples the satin pillow wooingly ; 

Smiles break like sunshine on a hill's fair side, 

And should she weep, the bending skies would seem 

To rain bright gems that purchase as they fall 

The hearts of mortals. Ah ! her lovely eyes 
16 



IN THE HAMMOCK. 1 7 

Have drunk the sweetness of the twilight hour, 
And droop like pansies, burthened with the dew ; 
The perfumed breath just stirs the fleecy lace 
Upon her bosom, as a white cloud drifts 
Before the orbed blossom of the night ; 
Adoring winds, on poised, expectant wing, 
Between their kisses whisper : Love doth sleep. 



MY LOTUS FLOWER. 



One sang within her ivied bower : 
The summer dies, the summer dies ; 

I held it to my happy breast, 

I laid me in its arms of rest, 

I drank the light of dreamy eyes ; 

And see ! I clasp the lotus flower, — 

Star of the East, pale lotus flower. 

strange, beguiling, mystic power 

Of flowers that chained my being ; lo ! 
Where dwells the spirit of the rose, 
And the lost violets repose, 

Where the pure souls of lilies go, 

1 float with thee, my lotus flower, — 

Down Niles of sleep, my lotus flower. 

18 



MY LOTUS FLOWER. 19 

O saddest, sweetest, parting hour ! 

Haste not, my summer, to the past ! 
Thy airs blew all from angel lands, 
Love kept them warm in rosy hands, 

And kissed them first and last, 
Then left me but this lotus flower, — 
This fair and potent lotus flower. 

Dear summer, pass in pearly showers, 

In rainbow mist of tears, 
For nevermore will mignonette 
Be fraught with such divine regret, 

In all the coming years, 
As dwells with thee, my lotus flower, — 
Sad Egypt's boon, the lotus flower. 



MY OLD HOME. 



It stands upon a sunny slope, 

And fronts the beechy hollow 
Where glossy vines have ample scope 

The wanton brook to follow ; 
Witch-hazels drop their magic wands 

In search of golden treasure ; 
And, lying in the silent ponds, 

The trout find quiet pleasure. 

The oxen turn their patient eyes 

Upon me ; the bay filly 
Neighs softly in her glad surprise ; 

The tender lambs are chilly, 

And nestle in my apron wide ; 

The apple blooms are sifting 
20 



MY OLD HOME. 21 

In eddies on the laughing tide, 
To yonder river drifting. 

The snowy dogwood stars the copse, 

Ferns nod in fronded beauty, 
The violet has modest hopes 

To pay her fragrant duty, 
The arum darts a mottled tongue 

To Indian-pipe, and vying 
With every flower the muse has sung 

Arbutus pale is sighing. 

Where poplar flaunts, in changing vest, 

Upon my leafy pillow, 
I found the child's enchanted rest 

Beneath a swaying willow. 
What mailed knights and minstrels old 

Defiled by ledge and fallows ! 
Or loomed against the cloud of gold 

That dyed the limpid shallows 



22 MY OLD HOME. 

And lit, with fitful, lurid glow, 

The windows quaint and narrow 
Of visioned tower ; the stream below 

Was broadened to the Yarrow ; 
And castled crag with haunted spring, 

The primrose downs of Surrey ; 
White-plumed courtiers to the king 

In smiling homage hurry. 

What islands gemmed the dimpled seas ! 

What mountains, lost in azure ! 
Tall obelisks from stately trees 

Took form and lofty measure ; 
And cavaliers, with snowy steeds, 

Rode forth on errands holy, 
While saints, with crowns of gentle deeds, 

Walked meekly by the lowly. 

Beyond the purple, misty glen, 
Among the ghostly birches, 



MY OLD HOME. 23 

Were kneeling pallid martyr men, 
Whose blood has fed the churches. 

The wild rose and the celandine, 
The iris, oak, and laurel, 

Were each memento, type, and sign 
Of legend, song, or quarrel. 

My world was wide and passing fair, 

The poet always teacher, 
Kind Nature for me everywhere 

Was oracle and preacher. 
Yet in the farm-house, large and gray, 

The real world of labor, 
I trod the prosy, busy way, 

And loved my boyish neighbor. 

Oh ! home with plenty at the board, 

With blazing hearth, and mother 
To spread the luscious dainties stored — 

What child hath found another 



24 MY OLD HOME. 

To knot a ribbon, smooth a curl, 

Prepare a roast or truffle — 
To sing and dance like any girl, 

Group flowers, or flute a ruffle ? 

What loads of belles and beaux from town 

With flute and horn and viol ! 
What cake, with apples red and brown, 

That never knew denial ! 
And father, younger than the boys, 

Our prince of song and story — 
Ah ! well, the dear old-fashioned joys 

Were more to me than glory. 

The household graves lie all along 
The school-house path ; to-morrow 

We lay, with chant and robins' song, 
The silvered locks of sorrow 

Beside the pure and patient wife, 
The mother loved and loving, — 



MY OLD HOME. 25 

Sweet death, that stilleth human strife, 
Our Father's mercy proving. 

My childhood's home ! in other lands, 

In other worlds will linger 
Upon my soul the clasp of hands 

Death touched with icy finger. 
The early loved — the lovely dead ! 

God grant me happy waking, 
To hear again the words they said 

When heart was nigh to breaking. 



PANSIES. 



Oh, purple hearts that drank the wine 

Of royal sunsets, where the sea 
Laves golden sands — the favored clime 

Of flowers — how tenderly 
I press your velvet lips to mine ; 

I hail the message that you brought ; 
Breathe o'er my soul the mystic sign 

Of Love's unspoken thought ! 

How many grand processions swept 
Above you, down the western slope ? 

How many dewy twilights kept 
Watch o'er his budding hope ? 

And did the whispering breezes wait 

To soft caress him as they sped, 
26 



PANSIES. 27 

Spice-laden, from the Golden Gate, 
To haunt your fairy bed ? 

Dear pansies, rich in royal dyes 

And sweet from living near his lips, 
Fair mirrors of his azure eyes, 

What can your worth eclipse ? 
When, darlings, this true heart shall be 

Silent and cold, to him repeat 
My life's unuttered mystery — 

That you have found so sweet. 



ONE WHO DIED. 



She I have cherished men say is dead ; 

'T was long ago that they told me this, 
Grasses grow high o'er the lowly head, 

Dust are the lips I delighted to kiss. 
Brown was her hair as the fallow mould, 

White her forehead as marble chill, 
Though she left me young, and I fast grow old, 

She I loved — nay, I love her still. 

She and I played on the frozen pond, 
Casting two shadows small and coy ; 

Seeking for nuts in the woods beyond, 
Sharing their sweetness, sharing all joy. 

Berries we found by the ground-bird's nest, 

Lilies we gathered by brooklets wild ; 
28 



ONE WHO DIED. 29 

Ripe berries, red lips, ye are all at rest ! 
I am growing old, — was I once a child ? 

She and I played on the old gray rock, 

Knelt in the mosses to play at even, 
Mended for either the soiled torn frock — 

I am here waiting, she is in heaven. 
Well I know that she died not, when 

They put on mourning, I dark woe ; 
For when I sleep I 'm a child again, 

And she and I through the old haunts go. 

She and I talked when the sunset glow 

Painted our faces with roses sweet ; 
With clasping hands, and hearts, I know, 

Pure as the snow from our flying feet. 
Talked we of dying, and promised fair, 

That she who lingered should not be lone ; 
And now in slumber she meets me there, 

Young as ever, my lost — my own. 



30 ONE WHO DIED. 

She and I slumber ; I awake, 

To marvel that she will wake no more, 
For she but now was alive, and spake, 

Calling me dear one, and telling me o'er 
All the glad tales of our sinless youth ; 

Telling me tales of the other side, 
Where she has waited for me — ' tis truth, 

Watching and waiting is she who died. 



OLD LETTERS. 



There, speak in whispers ; fold me to thy heart, 

Dear love, for I have roamed a weary, weary way 
Bid my vague terrors with thy kiss depart. 

Oh ! I have been among the dead to-day ; 
And like a pilgrim to some martyr's shrine, 

Awed with the memories that crowd my brain, 
Fearing my voice, I woo the charm of thine ; 

Tell me thou livest, lovest yet again. 

Not among graves, but letters, old and dim, 
Yellow and precious, have I touched the past, 

Reverent and prayerful as we chant a hymn 
Among the aisles where saints their shadows cast 

Reading dear names on faded leaf that here 

Was worn with foldings tremulous and fond, 
3i 



32 OLD LETTERS. 

There drowned in plashing of a tender tear, 

Or with death's tremble pointing " the beyond." 

And, Love, there came a nutter of white wings — 

A stir of snowy robes from out the deep 
Of utter silence, as I read the things 

I smiled to trace before I learned to weep ; 
And hands, whose clasp was magic long ago, 

Came soft before me till I yearned to press 
Mad kisses on their whiteness — then the woe, 

The sting of death, the chill of nothingness ! 

One was afar, where golden sands made dim 

The shining steps of the poor trickster, Time ; 
And one was lost — Ah ! bitter grief for him 

Who wrecked his manhood in the depths of 
crime ! 
Another, beautiful as morning's beam 

Flushing the orient, laid meekly down 
Among the daisies, dreaming love's glad dream ; 

And one sweet saint now wears a starry crown. 



OLD LETTERS. T>C 

And then there stole delicious odors still 

From out those relics of the charmed past, 
Sighs from the lips omnipotent to will 

And win rich tribute to the very last ; 
But death, or change, had been among my flowers, 

And all their bloom had faded, so that I 
Yield my sad thoughts to the compelling powers 

Of the bright soul I worship till I die. 
Nay, never doubt me, for, by love's divine 
And tearful past, I know my future thine. 



HOME-LIGHT. 



When I came with a sense of ecstatic delight, 
Into my home from the world and the night, 
Into its quiet, love's burthens to bear — 
The incense of worship pervading its air, — 
The sweet dews of welcome baptized my sad lips, 
As a bird in the fountain the weary wing dips. 
The soul like a monarch embracing its throne 
Would bask in content on the bosom of home. 

Little hands of caressing, eyes dusky and clear, 
That mirrored the thoughts unacquainted with fear ; 
Budding roses, red lips, lifted eagerly up, — 
How I drained the rich wine of that God-given cup ! 
Tired fingers enclasped by the ringlets of gold, 
That shone with the gems never miser has told. 
Ah, shut out the world, with its hearts cold and sere ! 

For the world of calm peace that awaited me here. 

34 



HOME-LIGHT. 35 

What balm to the spirit ! what respite from pain ! 
Like the soft summer wind in the hush of the rain ; 
Was silence e'er charmed to such tender surprise 
By the voice of enchantress — the moonlight that lies 
On my books by the window, the hammock, and 

chair ? 
Were the stars e'er so near and the flowers so fair ? 
What repast so delicious, so dainty ? its grace 
Was born of her presence and seen in her face. 

O mothers who kneel by your darlings to-night, 
Fair angels of home in their raiment of white, 
Have pitying thoughts for this mother bereft, 
And pray for the home that an angel has left ! 
Will she come when the roses have burgeoned to 

flame? 
Will she sing the old songs ? Will she smile just 

the same ? 
God help us poor women ! in palace or cot, 
The light has gone out where the children are not. 



THANKSGIVING PHANTOMS. 

Thanksgiving in the great house all too still, 
With painful order, haunted, too, you know ; 

Over the threshold and the window-sill 
Are lovely phantoms flitting to and fro. 

They touch the dear old instrument with art 
That never fails to stir the fount of tears, 

To open wide the chambers of the heart, 
And summon back the sweet departed years. 

Dead roses bloom, lost birds take up again 

Their music life. I hear the hum of bees, 

Gay childish laughter, talk of merry men, 

The summer rain slow dropping from the trees. 
36 



THANKSGIVING PHANTOMS. 37 

Often they sing, this shadow girl and boy ! 

Sing the old ballads, " Bonnie Banks of Ayr," 
Or " Annie Laurie," with a simple joy 

Of youth and love o'ermastering despair. 

Sing on and on, their beautiful soft eyes 

Wear never meaning that is cold or strange. 

Familiar faces give us no surprise ! 

Always before me, wherefore any change ? 

In the same world, dear Lord ! oh many a year 
Our darlings live to just and noble aims ! 

Their country ours, strangers to want or fear ! 
Brave toilers, free from selfish evil stains ! 

Thanksgiving ? Yes, that I can garner up 
The precious harvest of glad motherhood. 

So full of blessing, this our Father's cup 
O'erflows with tears — for " it is very good." 



DEATH AND ROSES. 



When I am dead, strew roses o'er me, Sweet — 
Great bleeding hearts, roses from head to feet ; 
Buds without stint, and leaves as bright and cool 
As ferns that nod by lily-haunted pool ; 
And let me hold them in these arms, my Own, 
So shall I never be again — alone. 

How have I loved them ? All the happy days 
I walked with life the old and pleasant ways ; 
Loved them so well I gave the best to thee. 
These, my true loves, broke never faith with me : 
Nay, in their folds I often found the tear 
I shed by night, a morning dew-drop clear. 

I want them all — my roses of Lorraine, 

The wild sweetbrier that blossomed in the lane, 

38 



DEATH AND ROSES. 39 

My Bengal beauties, moss-rose, pink and white — 

With all their glory it will not be night. 

Let lily-bells alone for me be tolled, 

And drape the sod with trailing Cloth of Gold. 

O peerless darlings of the sun and rain ! 
When did I seek your velvet lips in vain ? 
Your thorns have left no scar upon my heart; 
My first, last breath still yours, a very part 
Of all my being ; go with me where blows 
On Death's white bosom Life's immortal Rose ! 



CHRISTMAS TRYST. 



Whenever the Christmas-tide comes in, 

Come its phantom ships of the long ago, 
With furled sails that are white and thin 

As diamond dust of the wind-swept snow ; 
And the solemn joy of the voyagers pale, 

The silent ones with the folded hands, 
Who one by one in the dark set sail 

For the isles of the unknown Fatherlands. 

If they come back from the golden strand 
That sunset floods with the opal's glow, — 

Or drift from the Pleiads' lovely band, 
Or the Milky Way, shall we ever know ? 

If floating up from the crystal caves 

Where the spoils are strewn of every clime, 
40 



CHRISTMAS TRYST. 41 

Or gliding forth from the mossy graves 
To walk once more in the light of time ? 

I always hope that a signal sigh 

May break the hush of my yearnings fond, 
That the lost delight of a loving eye 

May pierce the mist of the dim beyond ; 
For who may tell if our prayers are heard ? 

And who can feel that our love is vain ? 
That the lost deny us a little word, 

A tender touch for our wasting pain ? 

And thus the lights of the home burn low ; 

I move with quiet expectant tread 
From hearth to window, as mourners go 

To crown with blossoms the sacred dead ; 
With here the ivy, and there a rose, 

White chrysanthemum, holly too ; 
What if the fingers sweet unclose ? 

That is for mother and this for you. 



42 CHRISTMAS TRYST. 

Hyacinths for the old and sad, 

Violets for the young and gay, 
Returning home they will all be glad 

To find it just as they went away. 
Surely, our love ever keeps ajar 

The inner door of the heart for those 
Who come from the unseen near or far, 

And leave no trace on the Christmas snows. 

Baby's chair where the dimpled feet 

Pressed the folds of his grandma's dress, 
In the happy place where the children meet — 

He and she — do they love the less ? 
Nay, for our human ways are best, 

I should grieve if I came too late — 
An unexpected, unwelcome guest — 

To my own, but " to stand without and wait." 

All that my Father has given to me 
Is mine in the might of unfailing trust 



CHRISTMAS TRYST. 43 

To have and to hold in eternal fee ; 

If I hold to the bond, it is only just 
Giving love for love, and I keep the tryst 

With the absent ones, at the Christmas-tide, 
As / shall turn to the lips I kissed, 

When I recross from the other side. 



SILENT MOTHERS. 



I wonder, child, if when you cry- 
To me, in such sore agony 
As I moaned " Mother ! " yesterday, 
I shall not find some way, some way, 
To comfort you, my little May . 

If, when you kiss my silent lips 
They will not pass from death's eclipse 
To whisper of the peace, you know, 
That waits where tired mothers go — 
Ay, kiss and bless you soft and low. 

If my poor children's grief will fail 

To stir the white and frosty veil 

That hides my secret from their eyes, 
44 



SILENT MOTHERS. 45 

Shall I not turn from Paradise, 
To still the tempest of their sighs ? 

Oh, patient hands, that toil to keep 
The wolf at bay while children sleep, 
That smooth each flossy tangled tress, 
And thrill with mother happiness ! 
Have they not soon the power to bless ? 

I think the sting of death must be 
Resigning love's sweet mastery ; 
To bid our little ones " Good-night," 
To turn from home and its delight, — 
Even with all of heaven in sight. 



LOST AND FOUND. 



O my lost bird, that sang to me all day ! 

Wee bird, that found its voice within my breast, 
Trying its pretty wings, has flown away, 

Speeding to palace gardens of the West. — 
There, in a lovely cage, with dainty fare, 

Her bright head flashing 'mid the glossy leaves, 
With organ trembles, blended song and prayer, 

The old enchantment evermore she weaves. 

When morning sunshine dances on the nest 
(White, downy nest, deserted), mute I glide — 

My yearning kisses on that shrine are prest, 
And tears are welling in resistless tide. 

O new-found nest ! O sunny head that lies 

Surely beneath an angel's brooding wing ! 
46 



LOST AND FOUND. 47 

Sings she, in dreams, of weary-waiting eyes ? 
And blind to half the glory of the spring ! 

If God cares aught for motherhood, I know, 

When Summer lies in Autumn's warm embrace, — 
Her dying roses with his lips aglow, — 

That I shall look upon my darling's face ; 
Note the first nutter of the Song astir 

In her white throat; and, thrilling in sweet pain, 
Find recompense for every grief in her, 

And life's lost music live for me again. 



When the first timid leaf, with many sighs, grew pale, 

And shuddering, sought the ivied arbor floor ; 
When the blue haze, like misty bridal veil, 

Draped the far hills and kissed the pebbly shore; 
When all my flowers held carnival, and flung 

Their perfumed banners to the August air, 
My long-lost starling, 'neath the lattice, sung 

Of spring-time glory — sung to death grim care. 



MY GUESTS. 



Gay trumpeters, my morning-glories, haste ! 

Crowd the low lattice where my darling lies ! 
The braided gold of tresses to her waist, 

And peaceful slumber veiling her sweet eyes. 

How glows the wedding ring upon her hand J 
A tender dream her lovely lips disclose ! 

And lo ! a message from the King's fair land, — 
Upon her breast she wears a sleeping rose. 

Oh ! mystery and marvel ! Is it life 

That stirs the folds of this transparent veil ? 

Divinest clay ! Awake, thou glad young wife ! 

Welcome and joy ! my baby mother ! hail ! 
48 



MY GUESTS. 49 

What heavenly gift is this thou bearest me ? 

A perfect being — and so pure, I stand 
Like Mary, bowed in soft expectancy 

And trembling wait the angel's high command. 

She moves, she wakes ! a new and holy light 

Strikes through my heart from her shy, happy 
gaze — 

The mother-love that knows no change or blight, 
And fadeth not through all the world's dark ways. 

And then, with rev'rent touch, as if she stirred 
A dreaming cherub from its sacred place, 

She lifted up the little drowsy bird 

And pressed her fondly to my white wet face, — 

Between her kisses and great tears that said 

More than all words : — "Thy namesake, mother 
mine," 

And stroked her baby's pretty downy head 
Like mother-bird with ev'ry winsome sign. 



50 MY GUESTS. 

Who said " a woman has outlived her best 
When roses fade and silver threads appear " ? 

Who sang her feet have journeyed to the West, 
When second growth of blossoms cluster near? 

Hush ! baby dialect ! the mother-tongue ! 

Set to old music — (sweeter for the breaks); 
So young these two — the dear old world is young, 

And sorrow wears a garland for their sakes. 

Now, like the flowers that open to the morn, 
My life takes on renewed and royal lease ; 

My sun stands still at summer's golden noon, 
For God has sent his messenger of peace. 



FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 



Like a rose-leaf encircled, lying lightly adrift in the 

daisies, 
The year-old pet lies famished, denied its delicious 

white nectar. 
The fountain is troubled ; alas ! the angel of health 

has departed. 
Poor little nursling ! She sleeps like a lamb by its 

mother deserted ; 
Tears bead the silk lashes, like dew on the fringe of 

the gentian ; 
Her breathing is fitful with sighs, yet she dreams of 

the fountain forbidden, 

The warm pearly stream that she drained in her 

sleepy abandon ; 

5i 



52 FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 

Her little pink toes half apart in her blissful con- 
tentment, 
Like a rose in soft ermine, the tiny glad hand of the 

cherub ; 
And questioning, smiling, the eyes of the innocent 

creature, 
Clear wells that reflected the peace of the beautiful 

mother. 
Fair as a shell lay the dimpled twin palm, in the 

gentle 
Caressing white fingers that thrilled with ecstatic 

possession 
With yielding her life to the helpless young life of 

another. 

Oh ! mothers who sit in your vestments of lustrous 

rich fabrics, 
Proud in your art to enchant, with music and science 

alluring, 



FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 53 

Who know not the natural beneficent joy of your 

sisters — 
See ! envy this mother, who cries in her anguish : 

" Forgive me, 
My birdie, thrust out of thy nest, the sweet bliss of 

thy Eden. 
God help us poor mothers ! how brief is the 

season of gladness, 
The fleeting delight of sustaining the weakling 

dependent ; 
How welcome were hunger's fierce torture, if only 

my baby were nourished ! " 



A VALENTINE. 



TO MY GRANDDAUGHTER. 

A valentine true will I send to my lady, 

My lady so small and my lady so young ; 
In her smiles and her dimples my poor heart is 
giddy, 
As the honey-bee reels where the sweetbrier 
clung. 



O baby, you came with the thrushes and linnets, 
The roses and lilies and strawberries red ; 

You shortened the days into hours and minutes, 

With the measure of love just as high as your 

head. 

54 



A VALENTINE. 55 

Your hair was the down of the thistle that drifted 
Above the white daisies ; the blue of your eyes 

Had stolen the tints of the violets lifted — 

Too pure for the earth, and too meek for the 
skies. 

I brought velvet rose leaves and dew-sprinkled 
clover 

To match the soft lips, the fair cheeks of this elf ; 
I rifled the forest, searched garden and cover, 

But never a blossom like baby herself. 

How danced the sweet tassels of locust above her 
How piped every singer in trellis and tree ! 

Winds, waves, and the sunbeams ran riot to love 
her — 
My bluebell that swung in the grapevine with me. 

The ivy caressed and the clematis crowned her ; 
Her little pink palms made the goldfishes dart 



56 A VALENTINE. 

Like flashes of light, and the butterflies round 
her 
Seemed only of baby's bright beauty a part. 

Not angel or fairy, enchantingly human ; 

Fair graft that retains all the best of our race ! 
If a rose were a bud, then were baby a woman, 

And the peace of the angels illumines her face. 

Through the mist of my tears shine her sweet, sunny 
graces ; 

Little mother, my valentine, sing to her low ; 
God's smile will make glad all the beautiful places 

Wherever the feet of my darling shall go. 



THANKSGIVING EVE. 



The wild winds sport with the snowflakes falling 
Over my graves, and the first hoar frost, 

Creeping like death on the panes, recalling 
All that the year and my heart have lost. 

Is it winter there that you come to-night, love ? — 
Press to my side from the starbeams cold 

In the wide old hall, where the red warm light, 
love, 
Lies like a rose in the curtain's fold ? 

Is there thanksgiving, with flowers and chanting 

In our Father's house, where ye all have place ? 
It is like you, dear, if but one stands wanting, 

To give of your best with a lover's grace. 

57 



58 THANKSGIVING EVE. 

I marvel not that our world's sweet fashion 
Of love and pity should draw you, dear ; 

Could they see His face, had they lost compassion 
For the souls that faint with their hunger here ? 

Only a year ! and my life's calm gloaming 
Darkens to murk. Is it morn with thee ? 

From sun to star, art thou free in roaming — 
To bide with angels, or come to me ? 

Have you found the key to the secrets olden, 
That Time and Death in their miser greed 

Denied to us in our love-time golden ? — 
Ah ! yours the blessing and mine the need. 

The moon glides forth and the Pleiades paling, 

Nigh is morning — I feel the beat 
Of the mystic oars — he is softly sailing 

The waves of silence to join the fleet. 



THANKSGIVING EVE. 59 

If their voyage is long, if they touch in passing 
The rings of Saturn, or round the isles 

Of the pearly sea, never world surpassing 

The earth they left where the home-light smiles. 

And my tears that channel the frosted casement 

Are drops of balm, for at last I see, 
Through loss and anguish or sad abasement, 

We cannot drift from our own and Thee. 



FAMISHED. 



If only mothers knew, she said, 
How hungry children are for love, 

Above each little virgin bed 

A mother's lips would surely prove 

How sweet are kisses that are given 

Between a rosy mouth and heaven. 

If only my mamma would kneel, 
As your dear mother, every night, 

Beside her little girl, to feel 

If all the wraps are folded tight, 

And hold my hands, her elbow fair 

Between my cheek and her soft hair,- 
60 



FAMISHED. 6 1 

And looking in my dreaming eyes 

As if she saw some loving thing, 
And smiling in such fond surprise 

On all my hopes of life, that spring 
Like flowers beneath her tender gaze, — 
I could not stray in evil ways. 

I would not wound the gentle breast 
That held me warm within its fold ; 

My mother's love would still be blest, 
However sad, or plain, or old : 

And even though the world forsake, 

I 'd love her for her love's dear sake. 

O mothers ! if ye only knew 

How the white raiment of your prayers 
Clings to the soul, when lost to view 

The splendid robes the body wears, — 
The children might be clothed upon 
With light like His, the Holy One ! 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 



I have garnished the house for Christmas, 

With its holly and mistletoe ; 
The tables are piled with dainties, 

And I sit by the hearth's red glow, 
Watching my children's faces 

From panel and vase and frame, 
In babyhood, youth, and marriage, 

With never a thought of blame. 

Gone ! one in a far-off city 
Will dream of his home to-night ; 

And one in her bridal chamber 
Caresses my roses white ; 

And one in " the better country," 

Fairest and first, I know 
62 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 6$ 

Is " about the Father's business," — 
Yet their dear forms come and go. 

I have knelt by the love-worn cradle — 

Aye, wept by the empty nest 
Of my birds flown high as heaven, 

Or lost in the great, glad West. 
And I string on a girl's bright ribbon 

(Blue as my darling's eyes) 
Some relics a mother treasures 

Of her by-gone paradise. 

Pink mite of a baby stocking, 

The little feet, tired to death 
At the end of a day's sweet journey, 

(Finding the angel's path,) 
Return nevermore to mamma, 

They keep in the walks of light, 
And I know it is well with the baby, 

While I pray for the rest to-night. 



04 CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Next, the glove of a college stripling ; 

Then slipper as white and small 
As the foot of the blushing fairy 

I dressed for her birth-night ball. 
She is standing there still in the moonlight. 

Love's dawn in her smile's sweet stress, 
And again in my heart the anguish 

Of the loss I would not confess. 

Will my boy come not with the morning, 

His proud eyes soft with tears ? 
And his " Mammaj^ y re my Christmas ! " 

Will they never come back — the years 
Of innocent mirth and story 

Those young hearts held in trust ? 
O flowers of their May-time beauty, 

Are ye nothing but golden dust ? 



ESTRANGED. 



I marvel, as I trace the white and arid sands 
Of our divided ways, if, in my eager quest, 
Of truth and beauty, happiness — the best — 

Has come to me. If lingering touch of hands 

Loses the old-time thrill in foreign lands, 
If the old pain has died from out thy breast, 
Nor bars the door to every gracious guest 

Who comes as bearer of the king's commands. 

And oft I marvel, should they go to thee 

Saying : " Thy sometime friend hath journeyed 

far, 
Found her ideals in some lovely star ! " 

If then, e'en then, the tender floods would rise, 

And drown the fiery scorn, lost love ! for me, — 

The sad farewell of thy reproachful eyes. 
65 



THE LIGHTS OF LYNN. 



O gentle friend ! when late I sped 

By Hudson's broad and classic breast 
And in its calm, translucent bed 

Beheld the burnished, ruby west, 
Drank purest life from purpling hills, 

And music from the piney shore ; 
Sang with the crystal, foaming rills, — 

Again with thee I sat once more 
Where Ocean, like a wearied king, 

With sunset crown o'er dusky land, 
Slept in the night's gold blossoming 

Upon the smooth and gleaming sand ; 

And read the rocky wonders piled 

Upon Nahant's historic coast, 
66 



THE LIGHTS OF LYNN. 67 

With murmured legends, strange and wild, 
Of shipwreck and of lovers lost, 

Until I seemed to drift away 

O'er Fancy's amber, dreamy sea — 

Beyond the light-house and the bay- 
Where tears and partings may not be. 

Recalled to earth by distant chime, 
Again we seek the city's din, 

Regretful of that scene sublime, 
We hail the lovely lights of Lynn. 

The lovely lights of sea-girt Lynn, 

While floating to that unknown sea ! 
Becalmed to rest, or pained by sin, 

Or moved by heavenly harmony ; 
'Mid all of beauty, aye, of love ! 

Proud visions of earth's royal souls ! 
If pleadingly I look above, 

Or where life's maddening torrent rolls — 



68 THE LIGHTS OF LYNN. 

Still, like a star that beams to win, 
That haunting picture fair I see, 

Where, guided by the lights of Lynn, 
I drank the twilight hour with thee. 



THE CHILD AND THE SOLDIER. 



It was a wounded soldier, and he sat 

With his starved face averted from the eyes 

Scanning his features in the crowded car, — 

As if his grimed and tattered garb, dear Heaven ! 

Were out of keeping with the silken robes 

Of the excursionists ; — trying to smile 

When happy children talked of fruit and song. 

Hunger and pain had hollowed the pale cheek, 

And from the midnight of his mournful eyes 

A world of anguish strove with manly pride ; 

Trembling, the fingers of his one poor arm 

Clutched at the Enfield rifle at his side 

As if that friend a history could tell 

To prove his title to his country's love. 
69 



70 THE CHILD AND THE SOLDIER. 

Sudden there sprang a child before his face ; 
A winsome baby girl, a very bird 
Of song and plumage, gay as May-day flowers, 
So beautiful ! The soldier silent gazed 
Till the big tears shut out the vision bright. 
She held three roses in her dimpled hand — 
Three deep red roses, fresh as dewy lips, 
That trembled softly, while a great round tear 
Coursed its sweet way adown her velvet cheek. 
" Soldier : take Ella's roses, — please to take ! 
Ella loves soldiers. Mamma, give him wine 
And fruit and bread ! Mamma ! " — 

Aery, 
A low, quick cry, wrung from a brave man's heart, 
And the sick soldier, sobbing, murmured " Mine ! 
My child, my angel ! Oh, my country held 
In grateful trust to crown my sad return ! 
God bless the land that feeds her soldiers' babes, 
The while he suffers in a rebel cell ! 



THE CHILD AND THE SOLDIER. 7 1 

A hundred arms were not too much to give 
For one such hour of rapture ! " 

Ah, in vain 
The allied forces of earth's tyrannies 
To crush a land where scenes like these light up 
The awful night of sorrow-breathing war. 
While the Republic takes her little ones 
In the strong arms of fond maternal love, 
Trains the quick mind in wisdom's blessed ways. 
She '11 never want for heroes to make good 
Her place among the nations. 



THE ANGEL IN THE HEART. 



The hot sun shone on the yellow ledge, 
Leaving of green grass scarce a trace, 

Scorching in wrinkles the fern and sedge, 
But the well at its foot hid its gleaming face. 

Cold and pure and far down it lay ; 

Thirsty lips o'er its freshness faint 
Turned in bitter reproach away, 

Weary sinner and dying saint. 

Hurled o'er the ledge by a giant's strength, 

A grim, gray boulder dropping down, 

The waters spring to the brim at length, 

And lo ! with beauty the leaflets crown. 
72 



THE ANGEL IN THE HEART. 73 

Heavy it lay in the silent well, 

As sorrow lies in a grieving breast ; 

But ever after, for cup and bell 
Flowed the rivulet, cool and blest. 

The sun and stars in a tender sheen 
Gilded its beauty by day and night, 

And 'round its margin in glowing green 
Fringes of mosses with flowers unite. 

Ah me ! The heart is a well-spring fair 
Of purest waters, but buried still ; 

God sendeth sorrow and loving care, 
And the angel sings like a laughing rill. 



THE ETERNAL PLAN. 



When the Eternal Goodness said 

" Let man exist ! " the plan was ripe ; 
He was the fair, the lordly type 

Immortal — living, dying, dead. 

We cannot die ; we live in all 

The ages past or yet to be ; 

In lives beyond the utmost sea, 
In leaves that have their time to fall. 

We are of earth, we clasp the stars ; 

Sing with the birds ; our pulses beat 

In time with every rhythm sweet 

Of hearts and waves, — no discord jars. 
74 



THE ETERNAL PLAN. 75 

We live in flowers, in mighty thoughts ; 
We have a part in every deed 
Noble and true ; despite of creed 

Of heavenly pattern we are wrought. 

For God who loves and ever lives 

Pervades all being ; we in Him 

Exist for aye, — if seraphim 
Or mortal growth to us He gives. 

Else could we feel our brother's wrong 
In lands as far as ship can glide ? 
Or thrill with rapture by the side 

Of every nature pure and strong ? 

O wondrous being ! heir to all 

Our Father's measureless domain t 
God-centred ! — if in bitter pain, 

Or throned in glory's banquet-hall I 



THE MUSIC OF LABOR. 



'Mid click of looms and groaning of wheels, 

Buzz of spindles, turning of reels, 

Cry of crank, moaning of shaft, 

Carding and picking, and various craft. 

Roar of water and rush of steam, 

In our factory window I sit and dream. 



Below me the river, in leap and dash, 
Foams in the sunshine's golden flash, 
Hurrying on from the gray old mill, 
Clasping the island, kissing the hill, 
Laughing in rapids rippling fair, 

Taking soft pictures here and there. 

76 



THE MUSIC OF LABOR. 77 

Amber and crimson, dun and brown, 
Ha ! how the bright leaves shimmer down ; 
Clouds of silver, coming to sleep 
On the breast of the river, calm and deep ; 
O beautiful autumn ! symbol of life ! 
After its summer of toil and strife 
Cometh the glory of love and truth, 
Ripened knowledge and second youth. 

Even here, in the temple of toil, 
Thought may garner her precious spoil ; 
Brain of genius, by day and night, 
Wrought in harness of steel as bright 
As helmet and cuirass, nobler far, 
Heroes of labor's bloodless war ! 
Groove and pulley and shaft give out 
Praise as lofty as martial shout ; 
Science and labor, hand-in-hand, 
Clothe the naked and bless the land. 



78 THE MUSIC OF LABOR. 

Wondrous triumph of patient thought, 
Honor the minds that have wisely wrought ! 
Honor the maiden, honor the man, 
True to our Father's righteous plan ! 
Idler of fashion, slave of pride, 
Poor in thy satins, this maid beside ! 
With hair of sunbeams parted above 
Brow of purity, eyes of love, 
Hand to labor, and eyes to trace 
Poet teachings of wit and grace, 
Weaving, perchance, with her goodly tweed 
Image of beauty and noble deed ; 
Weaving mayhap, in her fresh young life, 
Flowers to crown her, woman and wife ! 
Music of labor, glory of toil ! 
Beautiful world ! When the cold recoil 
Of selfish passions and idle aims 
Comes to the soul with angry claims, 
Turn to nature for peace, and then 
Honor thy God in thy fellow-men. 



WANTED, MEN. 



The times are mad with a fever taint 

In the very heart of the people ; 
Not bereft of priest, or abridged of saint, 

Or beggared of bell and steeple ; 
Glutted the market with tract and hymn, 

Tithes and missions and psalters ; 
But God's white fire is low and dim, 

In our souls and lives it falters. 

We have anise and cummin, spice and myrrh ; 

We have stole and font and chalice, 
Cross and cushion for worshipper, 

And unction for lips of malice ; 

Nave and chancel, with organs grand ; 

Messiahs (operatic and holy) ; 
79 



80 WANTED, MEN. 

And vestibules where " the lost " may stand, 
With the shivering poor and lowly. 

Gorgeous temples of brick and stone, 

Gilded and carved and fretted ; 
Flowers and vases adorn the " throne," 

And " mourners " (for sins regretted) ; 
" Talent " in pulpit at highest price 

Breaks " the bread of life " serenely ; 
Wealth and fashion, pride and vice, 

Tread the velvet aisles how queenly ! 

Brewers, importers, and jobbers make 

Fine pillars for churches of power, 
Mild and soft (for subscriptions' sake !) 

The lessons they give the hour. 
O mouldy legends and iron creeds, 

Vain words for the lives that perish, 
We want the service of gentle deeds, 

Heart-dew, and the arms that cherish ! 



WANTED, MEN. 8 1 

We want a faith that shall ever keep 

True step with the works of kindness ; 
A priest so " high " that his glance will sweep 

Through the mists of our social blindness ; 
Not quaking slaves to a council stern, 

But men of a wise endeavor, 
Whose love of God and of man shall burn 

In their thoughts and lives forever. 

See, Mammon is welcome at every hearth, 

While our Lord is a Sunday caller ! 
Style and splendor, with lofty birth, 

Make the rights of man look smaller ! 
Sound and whining or frantic zeal 

Drown the still small voice of duty, 
And few are the Christian hearts to feel 

A meek life's chastened beauty. 

The age wants men who can front the stars 
With their manhood's gaze undaunted, 



82 WANTED, MEN. 

And keep white lives from the evil scars 
The world's vile code has granted. 

Bold men of brain, in whose veins the blood 
Runs warm with a hero's yearning, 

Like the martyred sires who unblenching stood, 
All the tyrants' thunder spurning. 

Brave men to question, to think and know, 

To walk with a victor's tread, 
Unshamed in detraction's fiery glow, 

If in honor's path they led. 
To face a fact, or a blazing gun, 

As calm as death, and true 
To the heart their love has divinely won, 

With a siren's host in view ; 

Men hard as flint to the tempter's wiles, 

Impregnable as Gibraltar, 
Tender, subduing, in love's rare smiles, 

With a faith that may not falter ; 



WANTED, MEN. 83 

As Lincoln modest, as Paul a king 
Of the mind's august dominion, — 

Poet, apostle, the truth to sing, 
And lord of his own opinion. 

O thou of Nazareth, pure and mild, — 

Our brother, the type and Saviour ! — 
Who said : " Become as a little child " 

In trust and in kind behavior ; 
Come nearer, dwell in our secret lives, 

To ennoble, to bless, and hallow ; 
Sow deep, set free from our fashion gyves, — 

Thou knowest our hearts lie fallow ! 



We have quenched the fires of the cruel stake, 
We have shivered the axe and fetter ; 

Now grant, O Lord ! for thy truth's own sake, 
That we make thy world still better, — 

That we love thy little ones, near and far, 
With the heart's supreme emotion, 



84 WANTED, MEN. 

If in marble halls, or with bolt and bar, 
Humane with a just devotion. 

Oh, hear us, Lord, and help us, man, 

To walk in the light of reason ; 
To evolve a hope, to devise some plan, 

To crush out our social treason ! 
Must the beacon flame of the world go out 

In the tempest of sin and sorrow ? 
Let us put the legions of wrong to rout, 

And conquer a grand to-morrow ! 



CHICAGO. 



Imperial city, rising from the wave 
As erst fair Venus, beautiful as morn ! 

From thy most utter night, rejoicing, brave, 
Loyal, resplendent as of ocean born ! 

I greet thy towers, thy palaces of art, 

Imposing domes and vast expanse, with tears, 

Thou wondrous centre of the world's great mart, 
Giant of strength and beauty ! Though the years 

Have brought thee desolation, yet behold ! 

From prairie, lake, and forest, writ in light, 
In thunderous vapor, fold on mystic fold, 

I read thy destiny of worth and might. 

85 



&6 CHICAGO. 

Heart of a nation, unto man how dear ! 

Young, ardent, ah ! thy every pulse doth beat 
In time with progress ; not a doubt or fear 

Shadows thy future, glorious, complete. 

Here, Douglas of the lion heart, thy hand 

Scattered rich blessings ; here, sweet Pity shed 

The balm of succor o'er a bleeding land, 
And our spent armies unto triumph led. 

Religion, learning, high inventive art, 

Far-spreading loveliness in flower and tree, — 

God's special favor surely hath had part 
To work this marvel of an inland sea. 

Soon shall the white sails of old Ocean spread 
Their wings above thee, every nation send 

Its banner'd greeting to Chicago, head 

Of commerce, and for aye the exile's friend. 



NORTH. 

He resteth now, — the lone and weary-hearted ! 

Let gentle snow-flakes kiss his weary bed ; 
Self-righteous world, the desolate departed 

Is safely sheltered from your crushing tread. 
Hurl your anathemas ! judge him who flung 

Life from him like a curse, and unappalled ! 
Sneer at the lyre, too soon, alas ! unstrung ! 

Marvel he sought his Maker's face uncalled ! 

Uncalled, say ye ? How know ye that his pillow 

Gave not bright beings to his fancy's eye, 
Who beckoned him to dare death's darksome bil- 
low, 

And seek the peace of those who early die ? 

87 



88 NORTH. 

Perchance the seraph voice of one who blended 
The woman with the angel o'er the sea 

Came whispering, when the day's cold strife was 
ended : 
" Beloved, Heaven is lonely without thee ! " 



INVOCATION. 



O friend, amid the stately pines 

That murmurous music yield to thee, 
Recall'st thou the enchanted climes, 

St. Lawrence broad and clear and free ? 
What time we sailed in summer calm, 

With moonlight glinting wave and beach, 
To meet the south wind's kiss of balm, 

Surpassing melody of speech ? 

At night when the Nevada gleams, 
Like castle turrets, white and cold, 

And all the azure archway streams 
With oriflamme of gems and gold ; 

Upon thy lonely snow-crowned beat, 
Where foams and falls the mountain rill, 



9° 



INVOCATION. 

Come visions of our voyages sweet, 
By sheltered bay and wooded hill ? 

And fairy isles that slept serene 

Upon the river's peaceful breast, 
While cloth of gold some naiad queen 

Trailed regally along the west ; 
With furrows left by gliding keel, 

And lilies clasping to their hearts 
The golden secrets stars reveal 

When rosy Day at length departs ? 

Still on and on, as spirits float, 

Through waves of ether opal-rifted, 
Too blest, enrapt, to ever note 

If down to death we slowly drifted ; 
Now sighing faint, with clover gales, 

Then distant bell rang out delight, 
Anon the dusky grotto vales, — 

A fitting scene for such a night. 



INVOCATION. 91 

Ah ! from thy lips that keep for me 

Poems no bard hath ever sung, 
Still falls the entrancing melody 

Of Grecian isles when time was young ? 
Fair river, clasp unto thy breast 

Our love, — nay, tell it to the main ! 
Old Ocean, bear it to the West, 

And wake his smile for me again ! 



IF ONLY. 



If only over the wastes of snow 

The sweet south wind like a breath would blow, 

Soft and fitful, as comes and goes 

The breath of my one white folded Rose, 

Sleeping to-night in the moonbeams fair, 

That touch with blessing her bonnie hair, 

Afar where the south-land smiling lies 

Under the hyacinth brooding skies, — 

The dull, sad ache of my heart would cease 

As the spring's warm kiss gives the buds release. 

If only a May-bird, brave and free, 

Could come on a mission of hope to me, 

A winged echo of songs that float, 
92 



IF ONLY. 93 

Clear and glad from her dainty throat, 
Bringing the charm of my darling's face, 
Her clasping arms in a fond embrace, — 
The billows of snow on the dreary wold 
Would change to meadows of green and gold, 
Scent of clover and hum of bees 
Drift through the lawn and its stately trees. 

The brook that ripples in laughter light 
Where the daisy flutters her signal white, 
And mottled lilies, like knights of yore 
Trailing their banners through gouts of gore, 
With plumy ferns where the blue-bells chime 
Low to the heart of its love-lit clime, 
And all the pomp of the summer thrills 
Like a breeze from the sun-kissed, purple hills, 
Where the Arno sings to the waiting sea, 
As my soul floats out in a psalm to thee. 



THINK NOBLE THINGS OF GOD. 



If wrong and sorrow compass thee, 
Keep step with nature's harmony, 
Anon the evil shadows flee. 

If, sowing full and precious grain, 
The harvest yield thee bitter pain, 
Say not that human love is vain. 

If earnest eyes of tender trust 

Grow cold (as blind with doubt they must), 

See that thou fail not to be just. 

There comes an hour to him, to thee, 

When all thy true heart's fealty 

Shall dower his soul with purity. 
94 



THINK NOBLE THINGS OF GOD. 95 

If finding some poor lamb astray 
(Even thy foe's) while yet 't is day 
Bear it to fold by mercy's way. 

If, when the twilight comes to weep, 

Thy little summer daisy sleep, 

Doubt not that God the germ will keep. 

When in the brown and gracious mould 
Thy flower lies, from heart of gold 
An angel's wings of light unfold. 

For " God is God " ; whate'er betide, 

His love and justice will abide, 

And find thee through thy mail of pride. 

Though creeds conflict, they do not jar 
His purpose — not a flower or star 
But smiles from out the smoke of war. 



96 THINK NOBLE THINGS OF GOD. 

Are we not parts of God ? and lo ! 
Where'er thou goest He must go, 
Even beyond the hills of snow, 

From harebell to anemone, 

That waves in some fair southern sea, 

To worlds that fill immensity, 

His universe is not the loom 
Where any thread will fail too soon ; 
The fair design will bud and bloom. 

" Think noble things of God," for then 

It follows that thy fellow-men 

From thee shall suffer wrong nor pain. 



THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 



We were buried in the snow-field, in the canons 
east Pacific, 

Short of sunshine, yet the storm-fiend in his bless- 
ings most prolific, 

And, between the lack of coal and the scant supply 
of rations, 

The terminus seemed nearing without passing any 
stations. 

Now, to shoot across the chasms, and to reach the 

grand Sierras, 
Where the stars in smoke and vapor seem like 

ruddy, hanging cherries, 
97 



98 THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 

With the air like an elixir, is a rapture worthy 

heroes, — 
But to starve in prisons, comrades, with the weather 

in the zeroes ! 



We had toiled like giants, listened for the "fast 

express " with faces 
Begrimed, yet white, and not with frost, nor bright 

with Christian graces ; 
The hunger and the cold, you see, on railroad men 

are trying, 
And the face of honest labor is a poor resort for 

lying. 



You can brave a danger coming with a shriek and 

rush and tremble, 
Like a roar of bursting bombs, — not Death stooping 

dissemble, 



THE ENGINEER S STORY. 99 

And stealing on you softly, like a great white bear, 

to smother 
Every manly throb, until you turn aghast from one 

another. 



God of mercy ! that last evening, by our dim fire, 

hunger-driven, 
Failing succor, only whiskey, failing hope, (and may 

be Heaven,) 
Can you marvel if we broke the pledge, even passing 

it to Brodie ? 
He struck the flask aside, and groaned : " Not if I 

perish, Maudie ! 



" Don't, boys ! see, here are rations ; I have saved 

mine for your taking ; 
Leave the poison ; I am glad to die, my heart has 

long been breaking ; 



IOO THE ENGINEER S STORY. 

Eat, while I pray to God, and her, my darling and 

my angel ! " 
Then we knew oar grim old hero was a martyr, an 

evangel. 



Were we blind ? But woe is selfish, and the 

engineer was dying. 
" Nay, my boys, to starve is nothing to remorse 

that *s ever sighing. 
I used to run the ' lightning ' on the Central, and 

the fellows 
Always smiled to see me hasten when we came in 

sight of Bellows. 

" For my daughter, little Maudie, with her hair like 
sunbeams braided, 

And eyes of tender yearning by the white Nor- 
mandy shaded ; 



THE ENGINEER S STORY. IOI 

*Ribbons flying, ringlets dancing, lips aglow with 

merry greeting ; 
Dimpled arms held out to clasp me ; oh, the bliss 

of such a meeting ! " 

And the great sad eyes grew misty, like the gloam- 
ing by a river ; 

And the brown hand sought his bosom in an eager 
sort of shiver, — 

Found, and kissed a locket meekly with the blanch- 
ing lips of famine ; 

Showed it us : " My crucifix ! — please, boys, no 
more of damning." 



" Such a beauty ! — Is she living ? " Poor Jack 

Brodie, kneeling, crying : 
" Living ? yes, with holy beings ! — but I saw my 

baby lying 



102 THE ENGINEERS STORY. 

Stark and crushed beneath my engine, — can I ever 

hope to reach her ? 
Is there expiation, mercy, for a lost, a wretched 

creature ? 



" I had drank that fatal morning, and a broken rail 

was lying 
Near the crossing ; she espied it, and with tiny 

lantern flying, 
Bravely swung the warning signal. But my hand, 

alas, unsteady ! — 
And I staggered, sick with horror, to her little 

mangled body." 



He was silent, gasping, shaking, but a cry of anguish 

ringing 
Through the car with sobs of pity, and Jack Bro- 

die, kneeling, clinging 



THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 103 

To her sweet face within failing sight, — " Don't 

drink, my boys," he said ; 

" I have tried to do a little good, my angel ! " — Jack 
was dead. 



How we knelt and kissed his forehead, kissed her 

pictured face so fair ; 
And we took the pledge forever, in the solemn hush 

of prayer, 
Resolved to die (if die we must) like men, not as 

the beast, — 
And then we heard the " General Grant " come 

screaming from the East. 



JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 



Yes, law is a great thing, mister, but justice comes 
in ahead 

When a lie makes a fiend not guilty, and the neigh- 
bor he shot is dead. 

Leadville would follow the fashion, — have regular 
courts of law, — 

I take no stock in lawyers, don't gamble upon their 
jaw ; 

But the judge he said Gueldo undoubtedly did for 
Blake, 

And we ought to give him a trial, just for appear- 
ance' sake ; 

That Texas chap can't clear him, the lead 's too 

rich to hide, 

104 



JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 105 

And the black neck of the Spaniard on the air-line 's 

bound to ride. 
So I tried to believe in the woman with the bandage 

upon her eyes, 
Though one side 's as likely as t' other to drop from 

the beam or rise 
If a nugget should tip the balance or a false tongue 

cry the weight ; 
But I thought I 'd see if a trial was " the regular 

thing " for Kate. 
So I went to her pretty cottage ; the widow 's a tidy 

thing- 
Great mournful eyes, and a head of hair as brown 

as a heron's wing. 

Her husband's murder was cruel ; Antonio, fierce 

and sly, 
Had sworn revenge for a trifle when some of the 

boys were nigh. 



Io6 JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 

She had tripped to her bed of pansies, for Blake was 

going away ; 
While he bent to embrace their baby she gathered a 

love bokay. 
She heard a voice, — Gueldo's, — a shot, — and she 

ran to Jim ; 
But the baby's white dress was scarlet, and his 

father's eyes were dim. 
You Ve heard the cry of a bittern ? — it was just 

that sort of a noise ; 
It brought us there in a hurry, — the women and 

half the boys. 

She tried to tell us the story, — her white lips only 

stirred ; 
She seemed to slip quite out of life, and could n't 

utter a word. 
She told us at last in writing, only a name, — and 

then 



JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 107 

Six derringers found his level, his guard was a 

dozen men. 
She did n't take on, seemed frozen, — but Lord ! 

what a ghastly face ! 
With slow, sad steps, like the shade of joy, she crept 

round the woful place, 
And when we lifted the coffin she knelt with her 

little child, 
Just whispered to Jim and kissed him ; we said she 

was going wild. 

Ah ! deep things yield no token, and she wa' n't 

surface gold ; 
'T was a gloomy job prospecting round the claim 

Jim could n't hold. 
But I found her rocking the baby, her chin in the 

dainty palm, 
White as the shaver's pillow, tearless, and dreadful 

calm. 



Io8 JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 

I told her about the trial ; she shuddered, her great 

black eyes 
Flashed out such a danger signal, — or may be it 

was surprise. 
" They never can clear Gueldo, — he cannot escape, 

fori 
Can swear to his hissing Spanish, — that I saw him 

turn and fly ! " 
" No, never," I said ; " his ticket is good for the 

underground ; 
He 's due this time to-morrow where he won't find 

Blake around." 

The judge held court in his wood-house, and Bagget 

had stripped his store 
Of barrel and box ; I never set eyes on a crowd 

before. 
I dropped on a keg of ciscos, the judge on a box of 

soap ; 
Gueldo and his attorney found seats on a coil of rope. 



JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. I09 

Then Kate came, with her baby like a rosebud in 

the snow, 
Its pink cheek against the mother's pallid and 

pinched with woe. 
Jim's blue eyes, as I live, sir ! there were his very 

curls ; 
They set us miners to sobbing like a corral of silly 

girls. 
She looked so thankful on us, colored, and when 

she met 
The snake eyes of Gueldo, the braids on her brow 

were wet ; 
And if the hell of the preachers had yawned on our 

gentle Kate, 
She could n't have glared such horror or woman's 

deadly hate. 

Well, they went on with the trial ; an alibi, it was 

claimed, 
Would be urged for the wolf defendant ; the judge, — 

well, he looked ashamed, 



IIO JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 

When ten of the hardest rascals, the cruellest, mean- 
est lot, 
Swore, black and blue, Gueldo was four miles from 

the spot 
With them, a-hunting the grizzly ; then the Texan 

pled his case, 
Till the judge turned pale as ashes, — could n't look 

in an honest face. 
" Your verdict, my men of the jury, must be 

grounded, I suppose, 
On the weight of the testimony ; if you have any 

faith in those 
Re//able fellows from Gouger, the prisoner was not 

thar" 
And his honor growled upon him like a vexed and 

and hungry b'ar. 

I 've noticed the newest convert prays loudest of all 
the camp ; 



JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. Ill 

And that mutton-headed jury declared for the 
cussed scamp. 

For nothing Kate's truthful story ; the evidence 
went, you see, 

To disprove the facts ; Gueldo by the law was ac- 
quitted, free. 

41 You can go," said the judge ; " but likely the 
climate won't suit you here." 

Antonio rose defiant. 

Then Kate spoke, low and clear, 

(Clasping her babe, and rising,) "Are you done 
with the prisoner, sir ? " 

As a marble statue might ask it. His honor bowed 
to her, — 

" Heaven knows I'm sorry I am, child." "Be- 
cause," she replied, " I am not." 

A flash from her eyes and pistol, — the Mexican 
devil was shot. 

The smoke made a little halo round the laughing 
baby's head. 



112 JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 

Then I knew the terrible promise she whispered 

her husband dead. 
Gueldo staggered, falling, his swart face scared and 

- grim — 
" Dead, gentlemen of the jury ! Decision reversed 

for him ! 
And justice !" we heard her murmur, though she 

wasn't the talking kind, 
And she had n't the least allusion to that female 

pictured blind. 
Trembling she turned upon us the eyes of a 

wounded doe ; 
" Amen ! " from the weeping neighbors ; " God 

help you ! " the judge said ; " go ! " 



COMPANY K. 



Inscribed to its Colonel, Hon. A. G. . 

Up in the garret, with quaint, dear things — 
Baby's crib, where he found his wings, 
And floated away from me, fast and far, — 
I keep this blood-stained, battered star. 
And all that its blue, cold lips can say, 
A bullet's inscription, and " Company K." 

Under the eaves in the sweet May sun 

Swallows are piping, the love task done ; 

Robins and lilacs, beauty and sound, 

Life is pulsing in all around ; 

But through the vista of tears, to-day, 

I see them muster our Company K. 
113 



114 COMPANY K. 

Just out there, on the village park, 

In May-day sunshine they gather — hark J 

Mournful drum-beats and bugle's call, 

Our boys in blue — I behold them all ; 

Stalwart, manly, heroic, gay, — 

Strange — there 's but one man of Company K. 

One white forehead with locks of dun, 
A fond mouth's sweetness (only one), 
A long " farewell " in the tender eyes, 
A red rose kissed in a rapt surprise, 
A gallant salute as he rode away 
To death and honor, my Company K. 

Alas ! why tell of the awful strife, 

His battles of death, and my battles of life — 

The tiny marvel of love and grace, 

That never might look on his father's face, 

The blighted bud on my heart that lay 

One year from the marching of Company K. 



COMPANY K. 115 

Ah, well ! his letters were " bread and wine " 
To lips of famine : he said that mine 
" Had baby fingers and eyes " to him, 
So dear, all the stars on the flag grew dim 
In memory's mist through the deadly fray 
That covered with glory brave Company K. 

Then came the last ! the despatch had said : 

"At Gettysburg the reserve he led ; 

(And had he lived,) from our Grant's own hand 

A general's brevet of the Army Grand." 

But this my darling had strength to say: 

" My love, remember ! " and " Company K." 

We found the dust of a red rose there, 

Just beneath this star, and a tress of hair, 

And the golden head of our baby lies 

Close to his lips and his brooding eyes, 

See ! the sod will break into flowers of May, 

Keeping tryst with my star of old Company K. 



GUESS WHO? 

I know a little dark-eyed maid, 
With hair of ebon-gloss and shade, 
With lips of coral, and a grace 
In speech, and form, and lovely face j 
Ah, one a fairy prince might woo ! 
Guess who ? 

And oft with such a pensive charm 
In those sweet eyes we take alarm, 
Lest beings hid from us may stand 
And beckon her to angel land ; 
I know her name, and so do you ! 
Guess who ? 

She sings like birds that soaring die, 

Such rapt repose in lip and eye ! 
116 



GUESS WHO ? 117 

I watch to see her drift from sight, 
Leaving my world in utter night. 
She loves me, but she loves not you ! 
Guess who ? 



ONLY A WOMAN. 



The heroine of " Long Point Isle," like a schooner's 

mast she stands, 
With mother-love in smile and voice, if brown her 

shapely hands ; 
Broad bosomed, large of limb ! blue eyes of clear 

and level glance 
Look out 'neath brow serene with thoughts of 

childhood and of France ; 
And when the wild waves rend the dunes, she 

dreams of old Marseilles, 
For Erie rages like the sea in fierce December 

gales. 
Hers all a woman's patient trust, a woman's cour- 
age fine •, 

118 



ONLY A WOMAN. II9 

Her hair like ancient viking's gold, her lips as red 

as wine. 
The simple wonder of her gaze, its pathos deep 

inclines 
The mind to pictured saints, the dames of Spenser's 

classic lines. 
She moves with free, unstudied grace, Juno in 

russet gray ! 
A noble nature giveth ease, the royal right of way 
To every heart, for never soul as white and brave 

was sent 
To yearn and strive for broader range, in sickly 

tenement. 
Where comes the wild sea-fowl to moult, the mink 

to build her nest, 
The antlered deer to drink, where flames the cloud- 
empurpled west ; 
Where cedared swamps with ghostly birch and 

mournful sighing pines 



120 ONLY A WOMAN. 

Shadow the pools and sand-hills draped with noi- 
some tangled vines. 

In trapper's hut, with precious brood, six fair-haired 
sons and daughters, 

She dignifies her low estate, this " Lady of the 
Waters." 

Did she ponder on the problems that perplex our 
modern thought ? 

Did she sigh for wealth and glory ? Nay ; the ser- 
vice that she brought 

Was love's unwearied struggle for the timid lambs 
afold, 

Unselfish duties meekly done, with spirit strong 
and bold. 

The "Conductor," Captain Hackett, sailing west- 
ward for the straits, 

Met the demons of the tempest in the seething, 
blackened gates 



ONLY A WOMAN. 121 

Where the Lake of Woods is narrowed by the island 

and the land. 
Frozen spray and shoal around him, terrors dire on 

every hand, 
And the gallant schooner foundered, like a hunted 

stag at bay ; 
Lashed to icy masts, poor tortured ones, they waited 

for the day. 
And when it broke in snow and wind, horror fell 

upon the men ; 
Vain the hope of human succor in the " Devil's 

Cut"! But then- 
Was it angel ? Was it woman ? Lo ! between the 

surges high 
And a mighty bonfire blazing, something mortal 

draweth nigh ! 
It is she, the hermit matron. She has left her little 

flock, 
Reaching arms of mad entreaty where the freezing 

sailors rock 



122 ONLY A WOMAN. 

In the creaking shrouds, yet shrinking from the 
yawning grave below. 

In vain her "signal service"; still they clung, in 
fear and woe, 

Until sunset slowly lifted its black lid in angry fire 

On the shipwreck and the woman, on the broad 
and flashing pyre. 

Then she cried in anguish : " Father, keep my little 
ones ! " and bore 

Streaming torch above her, dashing through the surf 
that rent the shore. 

There with death the captain battled ; and with 
sinews pity-strung 

She snatched him from the undertow ; a giantess, 
she sprung 

Up dizzy bank, and laid her prize beside the glow- 
ing coals — 

Returned, and, one by one, she saved the six im- 
perilled souls. 



ONLY A WOMAN. 123 

" One for every child," she murmured ; " life for 

life ! bless God ! " and went 
To her round of quiet duties, singing in her sweet 

content. 



COMPENSATION. 



We love the flowers for their own sweet sakes, 

And music joy inherent only wakes ; 

Time brings no more, O darling ! than he takes. 

It matters little to the river deep 

If skies do smile or frown, or even weep ; 

And love alone can love, or win, or keep. 

To him who has a well-spring of delight 

Within his bosom comes no bitter blight ; 

The King of Day shuns not the Queen of Night. 

He is not rich who never suffered loss ; 

Nor saddest life that meekly bears its cross ; 

And truth is sweet, though barren of all gloss. 
124 



COMPENSATION. 1 25 

" The kingdom is within you," not without ; 

To him who trusts there is not any doubt ; 

And Love's calm front can put dark Hate to rout. 



LITTLE PHIL. 



"Make me a head-board, mister, smooth and painted; 
you see, 

Our ma she died last winter, and sister and Jack 
and me 

Last Sunday could hardly find her, so many new- 
graves about, 

And Bud cried out, ' We 've lost her,' when Jack 
gave a little shout. 

We have worked and saved all winter — been hun- 
gry sometimes, I own — 

But we hid this much from father under the old 
door-stone. 

He never goes there to see her ; he hated her ; 

scolded Jack 

126 



LITTLE PHIL. I27 

When he heard us talking about her and wishing 

that she 'd come back. 
But up in the garret we whisper, and have a good 

time to cry, — 
Our beautiful mother who kissed us, and was n't 

afraid to die. 
Put on it that she was forty, in November she went 

away, 
That she was the best of mothers, and we have n't 

forgot to pray ; 
And we mean to do as she taught us — be loving 

and true and square, 
To work and read, to love her, till we go to her up 

there. 
Let the board be white, like mother" (the small 

chin quivered here, 
And the lad coughed something under, and con- 
quered a rebel tear.) 
" Here is all we could keep from father, a dollar 

and thirty cents, 



128 LITTLE PHIL. 

The rest he has got for coal and flour, and partly 

to pay the rents." 
Blushing the white lie over, and dropping the hon- 
est eyes : 
" What is the price of head-boards, with writing and 

handsome size ? " 
"Three dollars ! " — a young roe wounded just falls 

with a moan, and he, 
With a face like the ghost of his mother, sank down 

on his tattered knee : 
" Three dollars ? and we shall lose her, next winter, 

— the graves and snow ! " 
But the boss had his arms about him, and cuddled 

the head of tow 
Close up to the great heart's shelter, and womanly 

tears fell fast : 
" Dear boy, you never shall lose her. O cling to 

your sacred past ! 
Come to-morrow, and bring your sister and Jack, 

and the board shall be 



LITTLE PHIL. 1 29 

The best that this shop can furnish, — then come 
here and live with me." 

When the orphans loaded their treasure on the 

rugged old cart next day, 
The surprise of a foot-board varnish, with all that 

their love could say : 
And " Edith St. John, our Mother ! " baby Jack 

gave his little shout ; 
And Bud, like a mountain daisy, went dancing her 

doll about ; 
But Phil grew white and trembled, and close to the 

boss he crept, 
Kissing him like a woman, shivered and laughed 

and wept ; 
" Do you think, my benefactor, in Heaven that 

she '11 be glad ? " 
" Not so glad as you are, Philip ; but finish this job, 

my lad." 



SURVIVAL. 



" Alas," one said, " your garden sweets will live 

To lure the butterfly, gay bird, and bee, 

When you, dear heart, have found the unknown sea, 

Whence no returning ship can tidings give 

Of blissful voyagers." " Nay, bless God 't is so, 

That this enchantment lingers when I go ! 

Sing, golden birds, to every summer's rose, 

And flutter, dappled streamers, in the sun ! 

Sick hearts will hail the beauty and repose 

Of all these hands have gladly, fondly done. 

Come always from the city's noise and heat ; 

Take of true life renewed and happy lease. 

Not face to face, but soul to soul we meet ; 

The past idealized, the future peace." 



130 



COULD WE BUT KNOW ! 



Could we but know the substance from the shadow, 

Behold the subtle process of the mind, 
The lights, the glooms, like cloud-rifts o'er a meadow, 

If only Faith were not so weak and blind ! 
If underneath the smile, the glamour weaving 

That gold-shot fabric — our own heart's desires — 
Could we but know the truth, nor self-deceiving, 

Feed high the incense of Love's altar fires ; — 
If our own souls were but the magic mirrors 

Reflecting all the beautiful, the pure ; 
Detecting fraud, yet pitiful of errors, 

Still Love and Faith, transcendent, might endure. 
But life has worn tear-channels in the spirit, 

And wrong and sorrow cruel doubts have nursed ; 
131 



132 COULD WE BUT KNOW ! 

The new-born king, alas ! he must inherit 
The pain, if all the splendor of the first ! 

Alas ! with eyes we see not, grope and falter, 
And miss the sunshine in the way we go ; 

Reject the gold, with dross and tinsel palter, — 
Yet Heaven is near us, if we could but know. 



THEODORE PARKER. 



If we who never looked upon our friend, 
Or heard the voice in holy counsel sweet 
That set the world's great heart to love's soft beat, 
With trembling eagerness our mite would send, 
(Yet knowing that such life can never end,) 
With what devotion will the hands he prest 
Shower grateful tribute on their leader's rest ! 
He man and truth unfaltering did defend, 
Breathing warm life into a dying faith ; 
Reversing the grim order of " the blood," 
Cried : " Lo ! redemption in a perfect life ! 
A Saviour only in unending good ! " 
Gave smiling challenge unto gentle Death ; 
His heaven hath in hush of human strife. 



i33 



EMERSON. 



Never alone again, since I have found 

The treasure of the jewels of thy mind — 

Richer than Ormus, or the fairest bound 

Of Persian beauty poets joy to find ! 

Do I behold the starry realms above, 

Or walk the fields, or in the forest lie, 

Thy matchless thoughts all loveliness approve ; 

The winds repeat them in each passing sigh, 

Birds sing thy messages of truth and praise, 

The ferns repeat thy wisdom to the flowers, 

The river murmurs of thy soul's calm ways 

Beyond the mists that cloud our feeble powers ! 

And life, love, duty, by thy royal side, — 

All things, O sage through thee are glorified ! 



i34 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 



AT SEVENTY YEARS. 

Seventy ! thy winter has the air of June 
When apple blossoms have displaced the snow ; 
The heart of youth in thy blue eyes aglow, 
And thy great spirit like the magic rune, 
The key heroic that has set the tune 
To man's enfranchisement from bonds and woe, 
And woman's grand advancement. If to know 
Time's mighty secrets ; to enrich and prune 
The lusty growths of this auspicious age ; 
To sound such thrilling notes as never Pan 
Piped in Arcadia, lover true of man ! — 
Not to have heard thee, were fate's irony ; 
And having seen thy soul's illumined page, 
Who is not hence thy loyal votary ? 



i35 



TO PETER COOPER. 



ON HIS NINETY-SECOND BIRTHDAY. 

How manhood redeemeth his promise to pay 

In the gold of the sunset illuming his day ! 

No counterfeit here, — not a grain of alloy ! 

Past ninety, you say ? He is only a boy ! 

Heart of oak, sound to core, with a garland of 

snows, 
Life's juices like wine, aye, as red as the rose 
That runs up the signal of summer to-night, 
From his heart to his cheek, putting winter to 

flight. 

The gods of the Greeks had their temples ; and he 

Ts shrined in the temple he reared to the free, 

136 



TO PETER COOPER. 137 

In the hearts he has blessed, in the lives he has set 
To the psalm of true living they cannot forget ; 
And his praises are sung in the click of the wire, 
The ring of the chisel, the crucible's fire ; 
The canvas reveals him, the press will acclaim 
The type he has set for the annals of fame. 

I stood by the altars to Labor he reared ; 
The incense of love to the God he revered 
Was the breath of young lips in the eager pursuit 
Of the good and the great — ah ! the coveted fruit 
Never reached, but his wise and beneficent hand 
Had lowered the bough ; gentle lord of the land, 
Golden apples he gave, toiling millions to feed, 
And we measure the man by the measureless deed. 

Again I beheld, through the mist of my tears, 
This soul in white raiment of beautiful years. 
The man whose calm life was like rivers that flow 
The deeper and purer that silent below 



138 TO PETER COOPER. 

The broad channel holds its glad way to the sea 
Of the infinite love ; happy toiler is he, 
For we reap as we sow ; noble effort and aim 
Have crowned him with honor and hallowed his 
name. 

When the even has come the good farmer looks 

back 
If his furrows are deep, in unvarying track ; 
To his vision bright blades, silken banners in line 
Are waving, of harvest rich promise and sign. 
And our Peter the Great, in reviewing his past, * 
By the straight lines of duty finds blessing at last. 
Nay, the flowers that spring from the footsteps of 

care 
More fragrant than lilies the idler may wear. 

Long live ! noble builder to all that is best, 
Oh late bloom the lily that shadows thy rest ! 



TO PETER COOPER. 139 

Flag of truce Death shall fling from his shallop of 

gold 
As you drift to the land where love never grows 

old. 
For the ships that put out from the Beautiful Isles, 
Are fanned by the angels and freighted with smiles. 
Lo, the harbor is calm, and its Master divine : 
His rates are all just upon thine and on mine. 



NAMING THE FLOWER. 



TO F. L. 



Nay, breathe not my name to your yacht or white 

steed, 
Your hunter or falcon, but grant me to read 
My name in the glorious song that was born 
On your lips, with the sea in your soul, yestermorn ; 
That study in clouds that you sketched at Glen- 

coe, — 

Those drifts in the moonlight are whiter than snow ; 

Let me see my initials above your last gem, — 

I admire it, if all the cross critics condemn ; 

Or if, of all loveliest things you would dower 

With the name of your friend, may I live in a 

flower ! 

140 



NAMING THE FLOWER. 141 

The song and the picture, the fair flowing line, 

Are music, and beauty, and life. How divine 

To dwell in the arts, to inhabit a rose 

Like the sea-haunted shell ! what enchanting repose 

To sleep in the pearl-crusted, odorous cell 

Of the wind-shaken, cream-tinted, luminous bell, 

Awake to the tale the bright humming-bird sings, 

Entranced by his eyes, and beguiled by his wings, 

That weave their swift spells over vision and brain, 

Until sound is a rainbow, half bliss and half pain ! 

Let me reign in the heart of the queen of the 

fair, — 
In her robes of the samite the angels may wear, — 
And learn the sweet secrets the hermit thrush told 
When the red moon had turned all her tear-drops 

to gold, 
And the fountain was silent with envy, and they 
(The poor faded loves of the passionate day) 



142 NAMING THE FLOWER. 

Were dying around her. O rose of the South ! 
Let me dream, let me die on her tremulous mouth ! 
For the soul of the rose is the life she has brought 
From Eden to bloom in a poet's clear thought. 
The blush, the rich lustre, the veinings we trace, 
Of the earth are they earthy ? — immortal the race ! 
No rose that is perfect dies out of the world. 
Will the star that you love from its orbit be hurled ? 

Roses live in the heart, though the heart may forget 
The face of a lover ; they sharpen regret, 
They consecrate joy, they dissolve in soft rain ; 
They breathe in the young mother's lullaby strain ; 
They felt the pure touch of the Master and smiled, 
" And of such is the kingdom," the rose and the 

child. 
They kindle the roseate tint of the cheek, 
And laugh in the dimple confessions bespeak ; 
They kiss the cold fingers when kissing is past 
For our lips that must hunger in vain to the last. 



NAMING THE FLOWER. 143 

Then wait until summer has burgeoned to flame, 
And the rose of your sowing shall ask for her name. 
With dew-drops the sunrise has reddened to wine, 
Baptize this Canadian new namesake of mine ; — 
Speak low, lest the blight of my sorrow shall close 
Like death round the heart of your beautiful rose. 



RELUCTANCE. 



I marvel much that dying eyes should turn 

Regretfully on the imperilled way, 

The road once travelled ; e'en its scattered 

flowers 

Or cool white stones marking some happy day ; 

Why shrink from shadow of a simple urn ? 

(Goal of the journey, this forced march of ours) 

If crowned with roses or with wayside weeds, 

Why weeping falter in the song that ends 

In trembling pathos, howsoe'er it ranged, 

Without encore from any of the friends 

Who praise or blame our good or evil deeds, 

Whose constancy no errors have estranged ? 

Their loving hands our falling curtains stay, 
144 



RELUCTANCE. 145 

And like as wayward children closer cling, 
Unto the gentle bosom that they wound, 

We seek the shelter of love's tender wing, 
When fall the dews of life's departing day, 

Nor fear to stray beyond sweet mercy's bound. 



WITH A SEA-SHELL. 



" Our ship was like a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean." — Coleridge. 

God send thy good ships all to thee, 

The white-winged messengers that swept 

O'er fancy's fair and shoreless sea, 

The gallant ships where sunbeams slept. 

Where never tempest dark and dread 
Careered, or lightning's lurid glare 

Menaced thy lovely drooping head, 
Like flowers that bend in silent prayer. 

Come ships full freighted with the stores 

Of India's sandal-wood and gems, 
146 



WITH A SEA-SHELL. 147 

The shining fabrics of the shores 

That hoard the Old World's diadems ; 

The perfumes caught from roses pressed 

In trembling joy by dying hands ; 
Or pearls some Naiad love has blessed, 

Has dreaming strewn on golden sands. 

Oh, flying ships that kiss the waves, 
Sail on around this changing world, 

Bring hope and peace to all the graves 
Where Faith her dewy pinions furled ! 

Oh, bear to her a woman's thought, 

Bring truth and love and length of days, 

The sweet content by patience wrought, 
The deeds that have no need of praise ! 



RED ROSES. 



Let not the drifted snow of lilies white 

Press my dead heart, but roses red as flame ; 
It will be morning then ; the stormy night 

Gone like the discords of some martial strain 
Heard all too near — in the dim distance sweet. 

O rose of life ! that struggled to the light, 
At last unfolding, beautiful, complete, 

To bud and bloom forever in His sight ! 



148 



ORIENT. 



They tell the heart 's hushed secret in a Rose, 
And with an unclosed bud lovers reveal 

The passion pure and ardent, that yet glows 
The brighter with all efforts to conceal. 



149 



REMEMBER ME. 



Remember me, — not for my eyes or voice, 
Or the old charm you found in smile or air, 
Or sunny tints you loved in my dark hair, 
Or any word that bade you to rejoice, 
Or aught, my darling, in which you have choice ; 
But for the memories that still must be 
The soul of life, — for these remember me. 



150 



TO A GIRL WITH A WATER-LILY. 

But yesterday this peerless thing, 

A swaying censer in the light 
Of crystal wave and glancing wing, 

Made the St. Lawrence white. 
I marked it from the old canoe, 

The fairest of the fleet, 
" And only, Golden Hair, for you," 

I said, " this prize is meet. 
Pirate of that enchanted sea 
I bring my spoils, sweetheart, to thee ! " 

O bending skies of amethyst ! 

O river grand ! I dare 
To turn again, O Time, and list 

The whispered vow and prayer ; 

151 



152 TO A GIRL WITH A WATER-LILY. 

To live again that royal hour 
That drained life's golden wine, 

That left me neither wish nor power 
To win and wear the vine ; 

A dreamer drifting with the tide, 

With smiling front of maiden pride. 

Could we have known, my love and I, 

How many lovely moons would kiss 
The lilies in this mimic sky, 

How much the heart may miss, 
Yet bravely o'er the tide of tears 

The circling waves of light uphold 
A snowy banner changing years 

Have starred with hearts of gold, 
We had not murmured ! Dear one, see ! 
Emblem of peace I give to thee. 



LOST. 

The barren moor, the forest dark, 

Gray frowning cliffs and blackened sky, 

The still, deep lake — a plunge — and hark ! 
Was that the bittern's mournful cry 
From out the stately rushes nigh ? 

How wails the wind ! and something white 
A moment drifts the lilies by ; 

Are angels upon guard to-night ? 
Hark ! once again the bittern's cry 
Among the rushes stark and high. 

A maiden's footstep in the sand — 

A scarf, with dainty glove near by — 

Ah, well ! the white and perfect hand, 
153 



154 LOST. 

With rival lilies it will lie ! — 

Was that the bittern's warning cry ? 

O love ! how sweet (e'en unto death) 
At that weird hour the rushes sigh ! 

The night wind softly holds its breath 
To hear, perchance, the bittern's cry — 
Then murmurs : " Love, betrayed, must die ! 



TWO LITTLE GRAVES. 



Side by side two tiny hillocks, just as little lambs 

may meet, 
That have wandered from the fallows to the daisied 

meadows sweet, 
Sleeping in the blessed sunshine, hearing not the 

mother's bleat. 

One was borne to peaceful slumber when the sun- 
set's crimson dyes 
On her catafalque of lilies fell in royal draperies, 
And a train of stately mourners looked farewell with 
tearless eyes. 

And I seemed to hear the mother, who had crossed 

the silent sea 

i55 



156 TWO LITTLE GRAVES. 

To await that angel-voyager in her snow-white 

argosy, 
Cry, Hosanna ! to the Saviour, once a babe in 

Galilee. 

But the other, in the dawning of a bitter April day, 
When the frozen tears of heaven on the pale arbutus 

lay, 
Was borne out in pauper's coffin by the sexton, 

stern and gray. 

Never glow of bud or leaflet on that little sinless 

breast ; 
Never toll of bell, or chanting blessed words of holy 

rest, — 
Only sobs of mortal anguish of a sinner unconfessed. 

Not a meeting, but a parting ; mother still, though 
never wed ; 



TWO LITTLE GRAVES. 157 

And a haunting face beside her, looking down upon 

their dead, — 
O beguiling face, and craven ! " Thou dost judge 

him, God ! " she said. 

" If I dare not look the way she went for keen re- 
morse, O Lord ! 

What of him who lured me onward by distortion of 
Thy word ? 

Yet for him the world has honors, and for me the 
flaming sword ! " 

But He hears who heeds the sparrows, who hath 

justice for us all ; 
Both the lambs within His bosom, is he deaf to 

spirit call ? 
Nay ; His arm of sweet compassion — it will break 

the woman's fall. 



IN REMEMBRANCE. 



M. E. T. 

If sunbeams could be held and braided 

Within the meshes of her hair, 
If orient pearls by rosebuds shaded 

Had made her cheeks so softly fair, 
If violets could smile serenely 

As did her shining eyes — to me 
The secret of her beauty queenly 

No more a mystery would be. 

If you have plucked the scented clover, 

And drank the sweets of white and red, 

Perhaps they breathed the story over 

Of all her sweeter lips have said. 
158 



IN REMEMBRANCE. 159 

If you have heard the song of thrushes 
From summer meadows borne along, 

Perhaps those clear, melodious gushes, 
Repeat the gladness of her song. 

Thou source of beauty, joy, and blessing, 

Who hast to thine own realms of love 
Removed from our too fond caressing 

This darling flower, to bloom above, — 
We thank Thee that in thousand phases 

These hints and tokens Thou hast given, 
That we may keep her earthly graces, 

And dream of what she is in Heaven. 



THE BROOK. 



Two streams divide the little town 
Where I abide, and one 

Is dusk beneath the hazel's brown. 
And silver in the sun. 

God never made a purer thing, 
Or one more glad, I know, 

And always in the happy spring, 
When fires of sunset glow, 

I seek the comfort of its face, 

The music of its voice ; 

And in my mossy hiding-place 

With nature I rejoice. 
1 60 



THE BROOK. j6l 



The alders dip their tassels red 
Where minnows love to sport, 

And in the willows overhead 
Loquacious martins court. 

Afar the lowing of the herd, 

The little ones at play, 
The distant bell, or song of bird, 

The hush of dying day ; 

Low sighing of the solemn wind, 
Soft ripple of the waves, 

Remembered melodies that find 
Their way among the graves. 

Where tiny brave anemones 

And nun-like violet, 
Lost in such saintly reverie 

Of love and vain regret, 



l62 THE BROOK. 

That woven with sweet eglantine, 
Our human tenderness 

Dear vanished faces can define, 
With not a smile the less. 

And often when the blessed rain 
Has overflowed the brook, 

I hear my baby coo again 
From out the ferny nook. 

Then, if a fleecy cloud is borne 
Along this mirror fair, 

I say it is the raiment worn 
By beings of the air. 

Oft when the golden nets are cast 
Adown the azure deep, 

I see a white sail drifting past, 
Stretch out my arms and weep. 



THE BROOK. 1 63 

As starving castaway may cry 

To homeward bark in vain : 
I hail the life-boat drawing nigh 

To rescue from all pain. 

Thus nature keepeth sacrament, 

And folds us in embrace ; 
So tender and beneficent 

We see our Father's face. 



THE GRAVE. 



The grave is cruel ; for it bars the deed 
Of latent mercy, presses down the scale 

Of justice with a miser's hungry greed — 

'Gainst frozen hearts what can our tears avail ? 

The grave is silent ; answer it has none, 
Although you cry repentant till you faint — 

Always beneath the cold, accusing stone 
Lieth a shrined and consecrated saint. 

The grave is mighty ; 'gainst it your appeal 

Beats like the surges on the flinty rock ; 

The pleading bosom pressing tempered steel 

Hath only wounds and anguish for the shock. 
164 



THE GRAVE. 165 

The grave is rich ; your dearest treasures lie 
Shut from your longing — hair of beaten gold, 

The ruby lips, the sapphire beaming eye, 
Pearls fair and perfect as the sea-kings hold. 

The grave is patient ; flowers come and go, 
The robins wait expectant every spring 

To herald any protest from below 

Against the charges that the world may bring. 

The grave is just ; for always, soon or late, 
The exile cometh to his own again, 

For time reverses false decrees of fate — 
The martyr liveth, loved of gods and men. 

The grave 's a haven for the sorrow-crost — 
How calm they sleep who enter into rest ! 

What if they find the dreams they weeping lost, 
The real life — and wake divinely blest ! 



l66 THE GRAVE. 

The grave is constant ; it will fail you not 

Though friends forsake and fortune from you 
flies — 

Honors elude — one little sheltered spot 
Hath soft, cool grasses for your tired eyes. 

The grave — I marvel we should fear to go 

Where one by one the dear ones passed from 
sight. 
Our hands are in the Father's, and we know 
His love is 'round us, be it day or night. 



A NOCTURNE. 



To-night fair Venus to her breast 
Such shield of woven amethyst 
And flaming rubies, opals, prest, 
That all the vast star-studded west — 
A sea of fire — 

Rolled in great waves of wondrous light, 
Too radiant for mortal sight ; 
The new-born moon, a-tremble, white, 
As tender babes that shrink in fright 
When lights expire ; 

And Mars, red orb fair swinging free, 

Revealing snowy poles and sea 

Of azure ; all immensity 
167 



l68 A NOCTURNE, 

Pervaded with sweet harmony ; 
Soul mounting higher, 

I heard the vibrant chords of those 
Great hearts that sang as sings the rose, 
When first its passionless repose 
Is broken by the song that glows 
With pained desire, — 

Until, like cymbals clashing clear, 
Each lovely flashing, singing sphere 
The secrets of its changing year 
Disclosing to the spirit's ear, 
The mighty lyre 

Of nature, smote by minstrels old, 
The sons of God, as sages told, 
With trailing robes of gems and gold, 
From world to world grand peans rolled 
Forever nigher ! 



A NOCTURNE. 169 

All the great masters slowly beat 
The measure of Love's nocturne sweet, 
While severed hearts like lilies meet 
On crystal tides, in murmurs greet 
The starry pyre 

That kindles with divinest flame, 
Responsive to each sacred name 
That holds the threefold blessed claim 
Of music's chosen, in the fane 
Of God, our Sire ! 

But over all the notes that stirred 
The deeps, that e'en Nirvana heard, 
There every lost and happy bird 
Awoke to learn and voiced in word 
Aspire ! aspire ! 

Oh, sweeter than all waters wild, 
Or winds that whisper low and mild, 



170 A NOCTURNE. 

Or prayers beside the undefiled, 
His liquid notes the little child, — 
Too soon to tire 

Of discords that this low estate 
Yields jarringly to souls elate 
With echoes of the blessed fate 
Immortals chant, beyond the gate 
Of Death how dire ! — 

Our angel sang, as sing shall these 
Bright sisters, fairest Pleiades, 
As seraphs sound the mysteries 
Of our transcendent destinies 
With lips of fire ! 

And ever from the starry space 
The beautiful young music face, 
Her wooing, winning, flowery grace, 



A NOCTURNE. 171 

Still drew me on to blest embrace, — 
O lost desire ! 

This " song of songs " rang out, like bells 
In dreams, from fragrant lily cells : 
" Who seeketh Mercy's holy wells 
Hath peace that earthly joy excels, 
As harps of wire 

"Attuned to hallowed keys that keep 
True time with Nature, pure and deep ; 
O mothers ! smile ! but never weep 
For those our Father's love shall keep 
From sin's f black mire ! " 

THE END 



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